I stayed with my husband for nearly three days, Father, but he did not move at all, not even when I kissed his forehead, not even when I pressed my lips against his for the first and last time. He was dead, and I had killed him…oh Father, I did not mean to do it, I swear upon my soul that I had not intended to murder him! How I would have welcomed his wrath then, Father, for it did not frighten me nearly as much as his cold, still body curled upon the floor, his skeletal hand still clutching his throat – he could have wrapped those fingers around my own neck, and I would not have complained or resisted, Father, for at least he would not be dead by my own hands!

After a while I realized that my vigil was pointless — Erik was truly gone, and it was entirely my fault, and I rose unsteadily to gaze at him. I cried over his body, Father, but whether it was for me or him or even the child I cannot say, only that I had never felt so alone in my entire life. Finally I had the freedom I had coveted for so long, and yet what did it mean? Both Erik and Raoul were dead; I had no one in the world who cared for me and nowhere to go. I retreated to my bedroom, but there was no solace there, for the rows of paper birds that Erik had crafted for me seemed to accuse me of my great crime, and everywhere I looked I imagined I could see him hiding in the shadows, just out of my sight.

I gathered the quilts from my bed and took them to the music room, where I draped them over Erik, for I could not leave him that way, before placing his manuscripts beside him. It was the only thing I could do for him now, Father, and yet it seemed so little. I then changed from my bloodstained dress into something clean, washed my hands, combed my hair, and said goodbye to everything – my prison, which did not seem so horrible now, and my jailer, whom I no longer saw as so cruel, for all of my anger had seeped from me just as Erik's blood had from his fatal wound.

And so I left the house beyond the lake for the final time this morning, Father, knowing that I would not, could not, return. I spent hours wandering the streets of Paris, but there is no comfort to be found in the aboveground world either, Father…there is nothing left for me here, nothing at all. Finally I stumbled upon this church and thought that I might find some consolation inside its walls, for I was raised in the Church as a young girl and used to find some measure of solace in God before my father died, and that perhaps if I told you everything, I could be pardoned. So I have confessed my sins to you, Father – I have been a wretched person, I have lied and schemed and bound myself to an unbeliever in a marriage that is not recognized by the Church, and I have murdered him, however unwittingly, and I was cruel to him, and all the while I fancied myself to be better than him! He was nothing more than a dog to me, a madman who murdered on a whim, and yet what am I? At least he killed because he loved, Father, while I have murdered because I am a selfish child!

You do not understand, you cannot understand; I must confess two more things to you Father, if you are not completely horrified by my crimes by now, for my sins are far greater than I have said. I have killed my husband, yes, but that was by accident, I hope you can see that, but today I have murdered two other people with intent, for before I left Erik's house I went into his laboratory – oh he was a clever man, Father, a genius some would say, and he fancied himself as a scientist of some sort. For the longest time he had locked its door and forbade me to enter, for he was rightly afraid that I would steal one of his potions and kill myself, but after I had won his trust he showed me the little vials and glasses and explained what each one did. He was so proud of himself and wished to share his knowledge with me, and I tucked the information away inside my mind. And today, Father, I stole two little vials of poison – one for me and one for the baby – and concealed them in my reticule, and just now I have drunk their contents.

No, no, Father please, don't leave me – it's too late; there is nothing you can do, I have drunk the poison and no one can help me now, not even the most skilled doctor in all of Paris. Please, will you come here and open the door so I may see you? I am afraid to die, Father, but I think it will be more bearable if you are with me.

Your hands are warm, Father; it has been so long since I have held a man's hands that are not cold as ice, and I can tell by your eyes that you are kind. Marguerite killed her child, if you remember the opera, and still the angels bore her to heaven, yet I know that I will not share her fate. Oh my poor baby; it did not have a choice at all, it never had a chance, to have a monster and murderess as parents! And still I call him monster! That isn't fair, it isn't fair of me at all, for I have killed my child, someone who is completely innocent, never asking to be created, never asking to be brought into my life at all, whereas at least Raoul knew the risks and took them.

My entire existence has been worthless, and I regret it all now. Raoul loved me, but I played with his emotions, even though I did return his affection, for I was young and foolish – he adored me so much and died because he could not abandon me to my fate, yet I believed him to be a cad of the most vicious sort. And then there was Erik, who loved me to distraction – it was not his fault that he was mad; he was driven to it by the world, and by me – but I was cold to him for the longest time, and in the end he also died because he loved me. And then the baby…does not every child look at its mother with the purest affection in the world? Even Erik loved his mother, and she could not stomach to look at him without his mask. Oh Father, I am the most useless person who has ever lived, and I cannot tell you why anyone ever loved me, for I see nothing in myself that was ever worthy of such devotion. I am worse than Erik, so much worse than he ever was, for he killed those he hated while I have only killed those who loved me.

Please, Father, may I rest my head upon your lap? When I was a little girl I would rest upon my papa's lap when he told me stories, stories of the Angel of Music – oh I wish that I had never heard such tales now! I am so tired; I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet when I close them I can only see the faces of those who died because of me – one beautiful, one hideous, one that I have never seen on this earth and never will – and they all accuse me. I never meant to hurt any of them, truly I didn't…pray for me, Father, that God will be more merciful to me than I ever was to those who had the misfortune of caring for me.

Author's Note: A big thank you to everyone who has read this story. The idea came to me in a dream, like most of my story ideas do, and I decided to run with it. Erik lied to the Persian about not killing Philippe, and if he was capable of lying about that, what else did he lie about? This was a little idea about what might have happened after Leroux's tale ended.